Pluperfect

Pluperfect

There was a wetness, and he knew that it was leaking. He would have
looked down, but he couldn't see past his own nose. He pushed against
the arms of his chair and rose easily, as though the wind could have
caught him up and carried him away. He walked along with three legs,
his two on the floor and the third his hand stepping and leaning
against the wall for support and direction.

When he came to the doorframe he felt its edges, polished smooth from
years of his searching touch. Long ago, when his vision had first begun
to fade, he realized that doorways are the worst places for doors. His
last visitors were the men who came and took all his doors away. It was
easier that way. The only thing he could never quite remember about his
house was whether he had left the door open or closed. Now he didn't
have to worry about that. But it was drafty.

He stepped through the doorway and hesitated, no longer with a wall
within reach. Down low, on his feet and ankles, the age-old drafts
scrambled and scurried, confused, trying to find a way to continue
their course despite his intrusion. But up around his shoulders and
head the air felt thick and stale. It stirred only slowly, raising dust
that had been preparing to settle into a more permanent sleep.

Recently, he had been having trouble distinguishing between the drafts
and the ghosts. A long time ago, it had been the drafts that chilled
him, and he had cursed and muttered against them. Then he got
comfortable with them. They kept him company after his wife died. And
that's when the ghosts began to come, or, rather, when they began to
show themselves again. They had been there the whole time, sleeping as
shadows under dark lampshades, hovering around the nubs of dresser
drawers and swirling back and forth beneath the closet doors. He and
his wife together had been able to keep them to shadows, but when she
died there was nothing to prevent them from emerging as ghosts again,
just as they had been when he was a little boy. That scared him at
first, but soon he grew used to them too. Now he thought he felt them
in the day, even in the morning, but he didn't know if it was them or
the drafts.

He took two measured steps then leaned against an old armchair. He
felt its frayed fabric, grown rough under years of his searching touch.
When he squeezed the back he could smell the puff of thick dust and old
foam upholstery. Then he reached carefully and slid his fingertips
along the wall until he felt another doorframe. Slowly, he pulled
himself through.

He took another carefully measured step then buttoned down his fly.
This took both hands. He had to be careful not to let his pants fall to
his ankles, because he didn't know if he would be able to bend down and
pick them up again.

It was still leaking. Plink?plink?plink on the porcelain. He shuffled
forward and braced both his knees against the bowl. Drip...drip?drip
there now he was over it.

Drip?drip?drip loud in the stillness. The loud was like light to him
the way it filled the room. He did not hear loud very often, and it
changed things. It sent the ghosts back to their allotted corners where
they huddled and waited for quiet again. Sometimes he thought that the
loud could even disperse the drafts. He listened to the loud with its
continued dripping sound. It reminded him that he was alive, and, for
the moment, happy.